The Keeper of Happy Endings(41)

“That you’ll lose yourself again?”

Rory’s head came up slowly. “Yes.”

“Then don’t let him be gone.”

“Don’t . . . let him?”

“The night my mother died, she gave me a locket with my father’s picture in it. I never knew him, but she asked me to keep him alive for her sake—here.” She paused, pressing a hand to her heart. “She said to keep someone in your heart is to keep them alive forever. You can do that for Hux, Rory.”

“Is that what you did with Anson—kept him alive in your heart?”

“I tried.”

“Was there ever anyone else? After, I mean.”

Soline smiled sadly. “There is only so much room in a woman’s heart, chérie. Anson filled all of mine.”

Rory nodded. The thought of anyone taking Hux’s place was simply unfathomable. “Sometimes it’s all I can do to look at his picture. Was it like that for you?”

“I don’t have any pictures.”

“None?”

“We met during the war, at the hospital where I volunteered. There was no time for pictures.”

Rory was about to respond when the living room phone rang. Her eyes shot to the clock above the sink, suddenly remembering that she should have been at her mother’s an hour ago. “That’ll be my mother,” she said, pushing back from the table. “We were supposed to have brunch this morning.”

After a brief search, Rory located the cordless and braced for the inevitable.

“Why are you still at home?” Camilla demanded, skipping right past hello. “Brunch is ruined.”

“I’m sorry. I got caught up in something and lost track of time.”

“What was so important that you couldn’t pick up the phone and let me know?”

Rory bit her lip. The surest way to blow up their tentative truce would be to admit she’d forgotten their brunch date because Soline had shown up with pastries. “It was just some gallery stuff.”

“You don’t open for months. Whatever it was had to be done today?”

“I said I’m sorry. I was ready to walk out the door and I got sidetracked.”

“You sound funny,” Camilla said abruptly. “Stuffy. Like you’re getting sick.”

“Do I?” She couldn’t very well admit she’d been blubbering. Instead, she seized on the excuse with both hands. “You know, I think I might be. My throat’s a little raw. I was thinking about making some tea and crawling back in bed.”

“That’s a good idea. Do you have soup?”

“Um . . . yeah, I think so.”

“And tea?”

“Yes, I have tea.”

“Put some honey in the tea. It’ll help your throat.”

“Okay, I will. Thanks. And I’m sorry about brunch.”

“Never mind that. Just get some rest. I’ll check on you later.”

Soline appeared as Rory ended the call, carrying her gloves and handbag. “I boxed up the remaining pastries and put the cups and plates in the sink.”

“You’re going?”

“You had plans. You should have said.”

“No! It was just brunch with my mother. We do it every Sunday.”

“And you let me spoil it.”

“Not really. In fact, I was dreading it. My mother and I . . . Well, let’s just say it’s been a little strained lately. She doesn’t think much of my gallery idea. Or my art or anything else I care about.”

Soline’s brows shot up. “You never told me you were an artist.”

“Oh, I’m not. It’s just something I used to play around with. When Hux went missing, I gave it up. I haven’t set foot in the spare room in months.”

“You keep a studio here?”

“A studio? No. It’s just an extra room where I kept my supplies.”

“May I see this nonstudio of yours?”

Rory hesitated, uncomfortable with the idea of showing someone as accomplished as Soline her work. But how could she say no to a woman who’d taken a cab across town to make sure she was okay? “Sure, I guess. If you want.”

At the end of the hall, she pushed the door open and waved Soline in. “Like I said, I haven’t been in here in a while, so it’s kind of a mess.”

Soline stepped past her into the room, skirting bins filled with tools and bits of fabric. She appeared to be about to say something when her eyes lit on the seascape hanging behind the desk. “Oh, Rory . . .” Her head came around, her expression one of wonder. “You did this?”

Rory nodded shyly.

“It’s exquisite. Like a painting but with fabric. Are there more?”

“Four in the closet and two more on the frames behind you.”

Soline rolled her eyes. “The closet. Mon dieu.” She wandered over to the unfinished piece on the nearest frame—a small schooner listing precariously on a dark and angry sea. “The stitching is so fine, nearly invisible. By hand, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Who taught you to sew like this?”

“No one. I taught myself.”

“Astonishing. And they’ll go up in the gallery when they’re finished?”